


Since I'm Falling, I Might As Well Fly

by rhythmicroman



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arkham Asylum, Arson, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Indian hill, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Like, M/M, Masochism, Matricide, Medical Procedures, Memory Loss, Memory Related, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Multi, Murder, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Polyamory, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Self-Hatred, Spoilers, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, Theft, all OC stuff is mildly mentioned, because im g ay, general Jerome stuff, i mean seriously what did you expect, ill probably cave and add nygmobblepot at some point, just think about it, when in gotham would selina and jerome ever like eachother?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhythmicroman/pseuds/rhythmicroman
Summary: You find yourself shaking as you look down on your hands, bandages covered in blood, the soft curves of your fingers cut slightly in the panic. Your eyes drift unfocused over the floor, before landing on the innocent doctor who had woken you from your slumber, neck scratched open like an animal had attacked.[You, as the reader, are Jerome Valeska.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Extremely canon-divergent, with some rarepairs in there, too. Enjoy!
> 
> (A collection of memories from the mind of Jerome Valeska.)

You find yourself shaking as you look down on your hands, bandages covered in blood, the soft curves of your fingers cut slightly in the panic. Your eyes drift unfocused over the floor, before landing on the innocent doctor who had woken you from your slumber, neck scratched open like an animal had attacked.  
Your name was something you never understood.

 

Everyone around you had names starting with ‘Doctor’, and only the other Doctors called them anything else. So as you looked up at Doctor Strange for the fifth time in ten seconds, and quietly asked him which Doctor you were, he, understandably, got a tad annoyed.

* * *

 

Your name is Jerome Valeska.

They found a way to combat what the blood loss and oxygen deprivation did to your memory, and are slowly piecing your mind back together. You remember flashes and splashes of your life before the Doctors took you: a kind man turning cruel under your mother’s harsh gaze, hitting and cutting at you until you bled thick streams; a river of blood streaking from her neck as you sat, shivering in fear, beside her; the terrified eyes of a police officer staring into your own.

You don’t remember how to feel, but you’re sure you’d smile if you did.

* * *

 

You remembered how emotions felt.

One of the Doctors got sick of you and took you outside, to ‘teach you a lesson’. You sat with your back turned to a small party of drunkards, humming and rocking on your knees, the clothes they gave you already muddy.

A firework exploded in bright, glittery colours and you jolted, eyes blinking rapidly with each burst.

The thrill was back.

Before you could control yourself, your eyes widened, your jaw dropped into a menacing smile, and the Doctor dragged you back by your arm, terror in their eyes.

* * *

 

The day you’d been ‘released’, you sat on the edge of a building, eyes staring into the foggy, polluted sky, trying to count the weakly-gleaming stars. The peaceful silence drove you mad, so you started humming again, the same tune as the firework incident so long ago. You dug your rough, gnawed nails into your palm and laughed softly at the pain as your own blood ran down your fingers.

You’d missed the feeling of being hurt.

* * *

You donned the fallen stranger’s clothes, nose twitching slightly at the smell of alcohol. The clumsy drunkard had stumbled towards you, words blurring together like wet ink, bottle in hand and lust in his eyes. You’d managed to smash the bottle after a few moments of less-than-friendly wrestling, and, if the shards of glass stuck in his throat were any indication, he wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon.

Before you left, you flicked his hat off his head, just to spite him.

* * *

 

Glass bottles made for poor mirrors, but you were fairly certain your smile was wider than it used to be – just by an inch or two, but fairly noticeable if you payed attention. You licked at the corners of your mouth and savoured the taste of your own dried blood, scars throbbing in pain.

* * *

 

The woman’s broken body reminded you of sick things, and you couldn’t stop laughing.

You hooked your cold fingers around her necklace, pulled with one swift motion, and laughed even harder when the glass beads rained around you, shattering in a shower of blood.


End file.
